


Checking In

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2019 [28]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Drama, Family, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Past Violence, Post-Skyfall, Pre-Kingsman: The Secret Service, Siblings, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 08:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: “If I poked your shoulder, would you scream?”“No, but there’s a pretty good chance I’d put you in the hospital.”





	Checking In

“Well, you look like complete rubbish.”  
  
Gareth turned his head wearily to regard the man at the door.  
  
“Thank you. The sling really completes the look, doesn’t it?”  
  
“It does.”  
  
Harry walked into the room the way he walked into every room: Like he owned it. Didn’t really matter that Gareth was now section chief of MI6, or that he’d had a long, varied, hard-won career in the military and British government beforehand. He didn’t know whether to chalk Harry’s confidence up to personality or the fact that, as Gareth’s younger brother, he felt entitled to walk into his older brother’s room whenever he pleased.  
  
“Little bird told me you’d been shot.”  
  
“A merlin, I suppose?”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
Harry stopped in front of Gareth’s desk, and he didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t giving him the once-over. “Did they give you pain medication?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And in keeping with your usual stubbornness, you’ve refused to take it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes.  
  
Gareth ignored the jab and looked back to the paperwork on his desk. Not long after that clusterfuck in Ireland, he’d had a bad run-in with alcohol (amongst other things) and ever since he’d made a concentrated effort to avoid anything strong enough to become addictive. That included the serious painkillers the hospital tended to prescribe when one had a bullet removed from their shoulder.  
  
So right now, Gareth was just trying not to move too much.  
  
And Harry seemed to know that.  
  
“If I poked your shoulder, would you scream?”  
  
The question was so agonizingly juvenile that Gareth nearly rolled his eyes himself. Instead, he kept his expression blank and kept right on scribbling on the paperwork. “No,” He said, “But there’s a pretty good chance I’d put you in the hospital.”  
  
“I’m sure you would, Gareth.”  
  
It was Harry’s dry, patronizing tone that finally made Gareth look up. “Do you have a reason for being here, or was today marked ‘Bother Gareth’ in big, bold letters on your desk calendar?”  
  
Harry’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling contemplatively. “Well, let’s see,” he drawled. “You’ve been shot by a terrorist who’s had the country on alert for the last week, Olivia Mansfield’s dead, and you are now the section chief of MI6. Mmm… Yes, yes, I suppose I did come here solely to bother you.”  
  
“Since you’re not talking about anything else, I’ll have to assume that’s true,” Gareth grunted before determinedly glaring at the paperwork again. He only had a page or two left- he’d have to get Harry out of his office before then, or there’d be no way to ignore him beyond staring at the wall like a child. And since he doubted that he’d be able to hold his temper, what with the persistent, burning ache in his shoulder, that probably would end well. He’d have to slow his writing until then.  
  
“Don’t be like that,” Harry scoffed. “We’ve done this for years.”  
  
“And maybe I’m not in the mood for it today,” Gareth responded evenly.  
  
“Yes, I suppose that occurred to me.” He saw Harry take a seat in the chair in front of his desk out of the corner of his eye. “I’m told you managed to give as good as you got in that shoot-out.”  
  
“I’d say I gave them one better, since I’m still alive,” Gareth remarked.  
  
“Fair enough.” Harry was blessedly quiet for a few minutes, and Gareth reluctantly worked his way through one page before starting the last one. “How bad is it?”  
  
“How bad is what?”  
  
“Your shoulder.”  
  
“It’ll mend.”  
  
That was the medical reality of it: He’d gotten good medical attention quickly enough that eventually his shoulder would be just fine. The physical reality of it was that Gareth wanted nothing more than to go home, throw up a few times, and then pass out in bed, because the pain was aggravating at best and horrendous at worst without the benefit of a painkiller- especially if he made the mistake of bumping it against something.  
  
“I don’t suppose there are any pain medications I could procure for you that you _would_ take?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You’re certain?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Absolutely certain?”  
  
“_Yes_, Harry, I am certain. I am doubly certain, I am _triple_ certain, and I am absolutely one-hundred percent certain. I don’t want any pills, drink, or medication. I am _fine._” Best to knock all the possible future questions out as quickly as possible, or this would never end. Harry Hart had grown up to be quite the gentleman, but in Gareth’s presence he had a way of reverting back to his annoying little brother roots in record time.  
  
“Well, that last bit’s a lie, but if you choose to forgo medication I can hardly stop you.”  
  
For a time Harry was (miraculously, blessedly) silent, and Gareth dragged his feet as he finished the last of the paperwork. He considered finding a notebook in his desk and scribbling in it for a bit, if only to give the illusion of working, but if Harry had tolerated his silence thus far it must mean he had more to say.  
  
So Gareth calmly filed away the paperwork, clicked his pen, and set it down on the desk.  
  
“What do you want, Harry?”  
  
“I’ve already told you.”  
  
“That might work on some wet-behind-the-ears Kingsman candidate who doesn’t know you very well, but I _do_ and as such I don’t believe you. Why are you here, Harry?”  
  
Harry scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes. “Perish the thought that I could ever be concerned for my big brother’s health and safety. Old age has made you so cold, Gareth.”  
  
“Maybe, but it hasn’t made me stupid. Your curiosity as to my health would have been answered the moment you knew that I was at work and not in hospital, so that means there’s something else you mean to discuss. Out with it already.”  
  
Harry sighed. “Well, I suppose there _was_ one other thing I was meaning to tell you.”  
  
Now it was Gareth rolling his eyes. “Goodness, how _did_ I guess?”  
  
“Nobody likes a sore winner, brother. Anyways, Lancelot has recently died.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Gareth eyed Harry. “When?”  
  
“No more than four days ago.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Harry hesitated. “It was rather gruesome. Are you sure you want to know?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“He was sliced clean in half.”  
  
Gareth made a face, posture tensing before the pain in his shoulder forced him to relax. “He was- In _half_?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“At the waist?”  
  
Now Harry made a bit of a face. “…No. Right down the middle.” He gestured with his finger, drawing a line down through the center of his forehead, the middle of his nose, down his mouth and chin. “_All_ the way down. The two, er… _Pieces_ of him were not in any way connected.”  
  
_Cut in half._  
  
“That’s… Good Christ, what happened?”  
  
“We’re not completely sure yet.” That could be truthful, an utter falsehood, or anything in-between. Harry was as good at keeping mum about Kingsman secrets as Gareth was at keeping state secrets. “I confess that _was_ part of the reason I came to see you in person: It didn’t seem right to deliver this sort of news over the phone, not when the two of you used to be such good friends, and I wanted to ascertain your mental and emotional state before telling you.”  
  
“Just in case I tried to off myself again?” Gareth asked roughly.  
  
Harry eyed him, expression carefully blank. “I don’t think you have too much right to get _pissy_ with me, Gareth. My concerns have been valid in the past.”  
  
Gareth didn’t respond to that, mouth a tight, firm line of irritation. There had been a time after the incident with the IRA where he’d gotten quite low and, loaded on alcohol, had come dangerous close to putting a gun under his chin and ending his misery. Obviously he hadn’t gone through with it, but it had been one of the few moments in his life when he’d come truly unglued; he wasn’t proud that Harry had witnessed it, and felt the sting of that shame every time Harry actively recalled it.  
  
Gareth’s arm was aching fiercely. He wanted the conversation to be over.  
  
“Anything else you wanted to tell me?”  
  
“Kingsman applications are coming up.”  
  
Gareth snorted. “You’re not seriously-”  
  
“I thought about it, but your arm would obviously take you out of the running.”  
  
Gareth snorted again, louder this time. “You really think I couldn’t outpace some little twenty-somethings who’ve probably only ever shot deer before?”  
  
Harry smiled. “Naturally you could. But you’ll recall that the application process requires that candidates be medically cleared before the training, and at this time, you would not pass muster.”  
  
“Because of the bullet-wound, and certainly _not_ because I’m a nearly fifty year-old man who’s been doing desk-work for the last fifteen years.”  
  
“Certainly not. As you mentioned, sans the bullet-wound you could run circles around the little shits we’re about to train-up.”  
  
“Good to know.”  
  
Bravado aside, the idea of going through the Kingsman application process (_again_) with his shoulder in this state was enough to make a headache start behind Gareth’s eyes. No, best to leave that to the little shits in question that would need to be stomped on, like grapes for wine, until they were sufficient for Kingsman.

_Maybe I should send Bond to them._

Gareth barely repressed a snicker. Lord, if _that_ wouldn't be a lesson for his little brother: 'Fuck with me, and I'll send my most obnoxious, contrary agents to audition for your little secret agent club'.  
  
“Would you like a ride home, Gareth?”  
  
Gareth raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you _authorized_ to do that, Harry?”  
  
“Bugger authorization, I doubt you can drive like that and public transportation will be a nightmare. By the time you get home you’ll need to see a doctor again, what with all the bumps that arm will take on the tube.”  
  
Harry wasn’t wrong, however badly Gareth didn’t want to admit it.  
  
“Fine,” he muttered, rising to his feet and struggling not to stretch his shoulder as he reached for his coat and bag. “Fine. You win.”  
  
“I always do,” Harry responded cheerfully as he rose from his seat.  
  
“You do not.”  
  
“Yes I do, I have a long history of winning the various contests we’ve had between us.”  
  
“Name _one_,” Gareth snorted as they made for the door.  
  
Harry thought for a moment, eyes on the ceiling as Gareth waited, held the door open. “…Kingsman?”  
  
Gareth slammed the door in his face.  
  
-End

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to you I’ve had the first page or so of this worked out for YEARS. Long before Ralph Fiennes was scheduled to be in the prequel.


End file.
